Getting the Wrong Impression
by Fox Dreams
Summary: A muggle over hears a conversation between some wizards and gets the wrong impression.


Getting the Wrong Impression

By: Fox Dreams

Written September 24, 2005

I do not own Harry Potter.

_When I was a child I used to imagine that all I had to do was believe hard enough or long enough and I would open my eyes and see just what I wanted to see. My knight-in-shinning-armor. A dragon. A red bike with a loud bell. I never seemed to hold my eyes shut long enough, and as I got older, I started to wonder if believing was enough. Hell, by the time I was nine I would have settled for an A on one of my English tests. Wishing never seems to work, though I never did stop trying. Maybe magic just is not real._

"Anne!"

My beautiful daydream rudely crashed around me. "What?" David was staring at me with that exasperated face I had come to know so well in the six weeks we had been dating. I dropped my pen in annoyance, before glancing down atthe owl I had been doodlingon my napkin. My _cloth_ napkin!

The waiter coughed to get my attention from where he stood in a blinding white shirt and cute black apron. I quickly ordered a soda water and a salad. David raised an eyebrow and ordered a pasta. At least, I think it was a pasta, Italian food names always seem to confuse me.

"Are you planning on redecorating all of the restaurant, or just that part?" He seemed to become nastier every time we went out. I made a face and looked down at my sad owl, which now smeared where I had scrunched him up to hide from the waiter. I hope they do not spit in my soda water. If I was them I would, but that is beside the point. I really hope they do not.

I tried to smile as the waiter came back with our drinks, but I think it was more of a wince. I would have to leave a big tip. The waiter did not seem to notice me, but he did notice my date. "Would you like anything else, sir?"

David shook his head as he drank from his beer. It was the middle of the day. "Why are you drinking that?" I asked.

"They have good beer here. Why are you drawing on cloth napkins?" I made a face and turned to look out at the patrons of the restaurant. At the next table over there was a woman with a very large blue hat on her head. I think if she moved too quickly she could take my date out with the large feather on it.

I laughed into my soda water, making gurgling sounds. Death By Feather! That would be an interesting obituary.

My date was making weird groaning noises. I almost asked him if he was alright, when I saw that he was looking with disgust at a group of people that had just entered Lil' Lasagnas. It was easy to see what he was protesting against. These people were obviously coming from a costume party or convention. David hated fantasy and sci-fi. It was one of the reasons our relationship was so bad. We had nothing in common.

There were three men and two women. The men were dressed in an array of brightly colored suits and robes with pointed hats on. The two women were more normally dressed, if you could call trench coats normal in this heat. All of them carried briefcases, except for one of the men, who was so old he looked like he could drop dead at any time.

"There should be rules against this," David muttered.

"Really?" I asked sarcastically.

"Yes, it is wrong for people to go about looking like that."

"David?"

"What?"

"Shut up."

He leaned back into his chair and we sat glaring at each other until our meals came.

"...It is a wonder no one notices with everything that is happening." I turned my head to see that the brightly colored group had been placed behind us. "I mean the evidence is _everywhere_," the younger of the two women was talking angrily.

The man in the orange striped suit answered her in a calm voice, "It is understandable. People never notice what they do not want to."

"Gale is right. With this much activity going on, the Muggles will have to start noticing. Last week a bridge was destroyed, in the _middle _of the day," the other woman accused.

Interesting, they must not be a popular group in this area and are worried someone will get them in trouble. This is just like a detective movie. I love detective movies.

"Mrs. Sparks, they never notice anything that goes on about them. Not even that incident in 1972. Mr. Briar is right. We need not concern ourselves with them, they will come up with their own excuses," the man in a black and white checkered suit answered back.

The death bed guy answered in a horse voice, "That is not true Mitchell Morrie, and you know it. They are already noticing. Just last week in the paper, a young reporter..."

"Anne!" I blinked a few times before I realized David was trying to get my attention. "What is with you today? You're zoning out all the time."

It is very embarrassing to realize that you have been holding a piece of lettuce and carrot two inches from your mouth which has been open in the same expression for nearly ten minutes. I felt like my face was going to melt off with the amount of heat burning it. David was looking at me with a concerned face. The one that used to make me smile, because it used made me feel like he really cared about me. Too bad I no longer liked him.

My great trip to Europe had started out fantastically. Passport, check. Plane tickets to England, check. Cute caring boyfriend, check. Somehow, during the trip though we had seemed to stop clicking. Maybe we had not all along, but the fact was, at this point in time we are only boyfriend and girlfriend in name. At the end of the trip, which is at this time tomorrow we will go our separate ways.

Oh yah, I should answer. "I'm just tired." And you are ruining my chances to become a female Sherlock Holmes! "Are we still going to the museum tomorrow before our flight?"

"Yes, I still want to see that painting by Draga, Draganoska?"

"Dragiena," I corrected absently. The group behind me was ordering drinks. One of them seemed to be upset that Lil' Lasagnas did not serve Butterbeer, whatever that was.

"Oh Briar, just order something," Mrs. Sparks said in an annoyed voice. Mr. Briar was apparently the man in the orange striped suit. He ordered a red wine before continuing a conversation with the younger of the two women. It sounded like flirting though, so I turned my eavesdropping ears to the others while pretending to be looking out the window.

It was a while before something interesting caught my attention though. "Did you read about that rubbish in the Daily Profit," Mitchell Morrie said turning to the old man.

"The one about the Potter boy? Yes, that boy seems to be in every strange story these days. I would have half a mind to toss it out the window as garbage if I did not read that article last year. You know, the one with the interview. Sometimes I wonder about that school. I mean how does a fifteen year old boy get into basement of the Ministry, when he is supposed to be in classes or bed?"

"Now Mrs. Sparks, Headmaster Dumbledore can not control everything, and that boy has a habit of getting into the most dangerous of situations no matter what is done," the old man's words seemed to have calmed her down. He patted her shoulder and turned back to the waiter who was walking by and asked for a refill on his water.

Dumbledore, another name I do not know. For some reason his name makes me feel like I should though. So far, I know that there is some sort of group which involves wearing trench coats or brightly colored suits that gets itself into the papers a lot. They are worried the government, aka Muggles will notice this and come down on them. The one who is causing the most trouble is a boy named Potter, whom, if he is involved in the destruction of bridges, and often goes into the basements of government buildings must be a part of a violent group that is rebelling against the government for some reason.

David glares at me again as he pays the check. He must be pissed off because I have been ignoring him all throughout the meal. Maybe it is better I do not know what is going on, this group sounds dangerous.

I grab my bag, quickly stuff the napkin I drew on into my pocket, and push myself out of the booth. The old man makes eye contact with me asI am walking past the window. I am must be daydreaming; I think there was a toad on his shoulder.


End file.
